Chapter 9
A week blinks by.
When I text Harun about kicking Operation Zahrun into motion, he replies, I think I can handle this one, princess , and doesn’t bother to elaborate.
Fine, but you owe me if this backfires, robot boy, I concede, though I hate not being in charge.
The twins snoop on his social media with me, and we discover from Snapchat that he’s part of some prestigious summer robotics program. I can’t begrudge it when it means our parents have no way to throw us together any day other than Friday.
Nayim walks me home every night—always at a distance.
He even starts carrying treats for the stray cat—who he names Thara, because of how its yellow eyes gleam like stars in its inky face—so it will trot after us and give him an Auntie Approved? excuse to ramble the entire time.
I guard my heart at first, simply listening, but by the third night, I can’t help spilling my guts in return. I complain about the hoops Harun and I have to jump through, how frustrating it’s been that I can’t help my family enough on my own so we wouldn’t need to degrade ourselves with these dates, how my dreams of writing and college feel at once so close and so very far.
He listens to every word like nothing else matters.
Friday arrives once more, and with it, Date Number One.
Just like the last two dinners with the Emons, Amma fusses with my clothes, hair, and makeup until we leave for their house, but this time, Nanu comes along for moral support, asserting that she should get to know the Emons before things go any further. Tonight, our hosts are waiting for us at the doorstep, a bearded man standing at Harun’s side.
I scowl at my mother. “What now? Did you hire an imam to marry us off?”
“I don’t know,” she replies, and then, at my disbelieving squint, “Allahr duai! Your khala mentioned something extra special tonight, but I didn’t think to ask her what.”
“Uh-huh.”
I narrow my eyes, recalling the last time Amma and her new bestie planned something “special.” But she doesn’t appear to be lying. Arif and Nanu are equally boggled by this turn of events, while Resna’s tiny head bobs back and forth between us all.
I return my wary gaze to the Emons, making my way carefully up the stone pathway to join them. Upon closer inspection, the bearded man next to Harun is just another boy. He must be no more than a year or two older than us, though the beard makes him look more mature.
He sizes up our family over a long nose, through steely eyes as dark as Harun’s, before greeting us extra formally. “Assalamualaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh.”
I glower at my date. What the hell?
Harun shrugs as his mother takes the initiative to explain. “Surprise! We thought it might be time for you two to get to know each other a little more privately, but of course we can’t do that without a proper chaperone, can we?”
Amma has the decency to look gobsmacked. “Privately?”
“Don’t you fuss, Zaynab,” Pushpita Khala continues. “Hanif is my bhagna, Harun’s cousin by my sister. He may only be nineteen, but he’s already a hafiz who can recite the Quran cover to cover and would be the perfect chaperone to ensure that the children get to know each other without anything untoward happening. Harun asked Hanif to accompany you, in fact, Zahra.”
My eyes jump to Harun, who has the nerve to smirk.
Oh! So his cousin Hanif must be in on Operation Zahrun somehow. I turn back to scan the older boy. He wears a severe frown that does little to imply he’ll go along with our plan to deceive his aunt and uncle. If anything, he gives off the vibe that we’re inconveniencing him by daring to exist. Then again, Harun has a resting bitch face too. Maybe it’s just genetics?
“I suppose it’s a good idea to give the kids some privacy,” Amma acquiesces.
“It will give us more time to get to know each other as well,” Pushpita Khala says, hooking one arm with Amma’s and the other with Nanu’s. “After all, it’s important to seek khesha-kheshi with in-laws you’ll get along with, isn’t that right?”
Mansif Khalu claps Harun on the shoulder. “Ah, I remember some of my first dates with your mother. Back then, you only met once or twice before you made a lifelong commitment. Be a gentleman, betta, and don’t do anything your old man wouldn’t.”
“Got it, Abba,” Harun mutters, flushing as he avoids eye contact with his father, before catching my gaze.
We trade a long-suffering look, until I kneel beside my sister and whisper, “Resu…”
“I know, I know, ‘Be good,’?” she huffs.
I tap her button nose. “Nope. I was going to say, be yourself.”
She cocks her head at the insinuation, while Arif frowns at us, but neither stops me from climbing into the backseat of Hanif’s Prius.
When Harun attempts to do the same, his cousin exclaims, “You sit up front. No funny business on my watch.”
Harun does as asked, but my phone vibrates in my purse a few seconds later, once Hanif has pulled away from the Emon house.
Sorry. He’s a pain.
It’s okay, I type back. If you think Hanif is the right call for OZ, then I’m in.
The… programming language? he asks.
I roll my eyes, which Hanif zeroes in on in the rearview. Operation Zahrun.
Harun sends me a series of confused emojis, followed by, Didn’t we agree that name was kind of misleading?
You’re the one who said it sounds like broom, so let’s sweep this ridiculous idea right out of our parents’ heads, I retort. If you can keep up with the plot, that is, Mr. Valedictorian.
Stop writing in codes I don’t know then, Harun answers, ignoring his cousin. From my vantage point in the back middle seat, I can see how much they look alike from their profiles, but also how different they are. Hanif is glaring murder up at the road like he’s just daring some foolhardy truck driver to try to cut his little Prius off. Meanwhile, the smile that twitches at one corner of Harun’s lips contradicts his complaint as he continues, I’m more familiar with Java, C++, and Python tbh.
God, you’re a nerd, I reply, smothering a laugh.
Takes one to know one, and thanks to this nerd, we’ve got a breakup expert on the crew.
Your cousin? Seriously?
Hanif is notoriously hard to please. He’s already sent three “good Muslim girls” running for the hills since my khala pulled this matchmaking crap on him and tried to set him up with the daughters of her friends from masjid. Think you’ve got what it takes to make him hate you, Khan? ’Cause he will report your every flaw back to my parents without a second thought.
Harun turns in his seat to size me up.
Trying not to give away how much his doubt flatters me, I arch a lofty brow back. Puh-lease. I’m a professional disappointment at this point.
All my life, I’ve managed to let Amma down without making an effort, so turning off my date’s snooty cousin should be a piece of chomchom.
Harun’s smile dissipates, and I wince at the prospect of revealing too much, but when Hanif glares daggers between the rearview and his cousin, then growls, “Harun, you should respect your date by lowering your gaze,” both of us get distracted.
Although the words are directed to his cousin, they’re intended for us both. Good Muslim boys and girls are disciplined enough not to gawk at potential matches. But I’m not trying to impress our passive-aggressive chaperone, so I give Harun a good, hard stare, long enough to hear an audible gulp, even though he’s turned back around in his seat. Hanif scowls lividly up at the road.
Only when both cousins are suitably unnerved do I swing my attention back to my phone to ask, So where are we going anyway?
I figure having Hanif along is punishment enough, so I picked a movie. Harun hesitates mid-type, before finishing his thought. AMC is doing a Bollywood night, and you seem like you’d be into that.
My cheeks grow warm at the way he’s put real thought into our fake date. What tipped him off? Did he cyber-stalk me in return and seen the vintage posters of SRK alongside selfies with my friends, books, pics at the tea shop, and gorgeous BTS boys?
Aww, how cute!
Harun sends me an eye-roll emoji. I resist the temptation to yield to a fresh fit of giggles. As much as we want the date to go badly, Hanif tossing us out of a speeding car would be the very last resort, if only because I don’t want to damage the sundress Amma made me.
Luckily, we reach the parking lot of the AMC theater before our driver explodes. Hanif manages to find a spot close to the amphitheater-shaped building. As I ascend the winding stairs with the boys, gripping the metal handrail in one hand and my skirt in the other, notes of famous Bollywood songs carry over to us.
The ticket boy, a white teenager with a wispy mustache, appears as unenthused as Hanif about the whole affair while Harun buys three tickets from his booth. When he heads for the concession stand to get us popcorn and some drinks, I say, “Hold on a minute. I can buy my own snacks, you know.”
The thought of wasting my pitiful savings on these fake dates makes me want to wither up like a salted slug and die, but my pride won’t let him pay for me. Harun gives me a pointed look when I start digging through my purse for my beat-up wallet, jerking his head subtly at his observing cousin. My rummaging hands stop.
Shit. The plan.
I glue a simpering smile onto my face. “—is what I’d say if this weren’t a date. But since it is and your family is filthy rich, you should pay. I like my popcorn extra buttery.”
Hanif examines us for a moment more. Sweat begins to dot my forehead as I internally curse his unreadable face. Think I’m a gold digger, think I’m a gold digger—
At last, he says, “It’s true. Gentlemen pay for dates, Harun.”
Harun stares me dead in the eye before he extracts a twenty from his own wallet, knowing we’ve won. “You’re so right, Hanif Bhaia. What was I thinking?”
I bat my eyes at Harun, getting ready to say something heinous and bratty, but Hanif plucks the bill out of his hand without letting our charade escalate. “The prices at these places are outrageous. One jumbo popcorn should be quite enough for three people, thanks.”
I hesitate, watching Hanif march over to the concession stand himself. My own thriftiness has a reason, but aren’t the Emons—and, by extension, Hanif—loaded enough to get pizza, popcorn, and nachos? Or is this vengeance for me acting too greedy?
Harun sighs and trails after his cousin, but doesn’t put up a fight as we’re handed small soda cups. Whatever the reason, I guess our ploy is working. On the way into the theater, Harun texts me, Nice save, general , and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Soon we end up in center section seats. Hanif plops himself smack in the middle of us, the gigantic bucket of popcorn in his lap. Between him and the aunties—Bangladeshi, Pakistani, and Indian—trickling in after us, Harun is right.
This date is effectively a nonstarter.
The dramatic instrumentals of Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham echo through the dimming room as the opening credits play across a black-and-white scene of a little boy and his mother. Hanif harrumphs and takes an angry bite of popcorn when a photo of Shah Rukh Khan fills the screen, muttering something about him being a Muslim sellout.
Harun and I grin at that, but it’s when the tagline, a quote from director Karan Johar, materializes that I make faces at him: It’s all about loving your parents….
His blank expression divulges that he has no idea what the movie is about. I shake my head as he runs a chagrined hand through his hair, but I can’t fault him. K3G is a Bollywood classic that was released years before either of us were born.
I watched it with Dalia, Dani, and Ximena when we were twelve, during a sleepover at the Tahirs’, and while I still remember most of the best scenes—the four of us bounced on Mr. Tahir’s bed to “It’s Raining Men,” pretending to be Pooja, until he got home from the tea shop and yelled at us to go to bed—I forgot BE A GOOD KID was the overarching theme.
My eyes roll skyward. A bit on the nose, no?
But once the film starts, even Hanif can’t resist losing himself in the plot.
My whole heart aches when Anjali’s father dies, leaving her and her younger sister destitute. When Rahul marries her and his rich family disowns him, a tiny sniffle escapes me, causing Harun to send me a stealthy, You okay?
I’m good, I reply just as surreptitiously, the darkened screen of my phone almost invisible inside my open purse. Hanif loudly blowing his nose into a crumpled tissue he found in his vest pocket draws all eyes to him before my “date” can express doubt at my emotional state.
The movie is long, and I’m grateful Hanif at least allowed us the one popcorn. Harun and I reach for the bucket at the same time. His searching fingertips brush against mine, slippery from the butter, and I almost recoil.
But then I get an idea.
Flinging a smirk past our chaperone, I entwine our hands together, marveling once more at how unexpectedly warm he feels. Although his fingers are stiff, his pulse thumps a beat quicker than mine in the flats of our touching palms.
A scandalized gasp erupts beside me, though I can’t tell which cousin it belongs to. We’re forced to jerk apart when Hanif gives the bucket between us a good shake, spilling kernels all over the floor and onto our laps.
I hear Harun slurping from his Coke cup like his life depends on it. He doesn’t try to grab more popcorn for the rest of the movie, but whether he’s simply doing his best impression of a Victorian gentleman appalled by a glimpse of ankle, or he’s actually shy, the deed is done.
When the credits roll, we return to the world outside the theater in a daze.
Gruffly, as if he wasn’t bawling his eyes out a mere minute ago, Hanif says, “Dating requires a movie and dinner, correct? Where is there to eat around here?”
His dour gaze suggests we’ll be disowned like SRK if we recommend anything other than a halal restaurant, which probably means it’s a perfect time for me to insist we eat at a diner back in Paterson famous for “Texas” wieners made of questionable meat, but Harun replies, “That’s okay, Bhaia. The movie was two hours too long and I’m wiped out. I’d rather not waste more time on this.”
Although I might not have minded debating the ending with him, my head nods of its own volition. “If you’re going to be a cheapskate, fine. I’m already full anyway. You know… from all that popcorn.”
If Hanif picks up my jab at his popcorn hogging, he doesn’t let on, but I notice Harun dimpling at me on our way back to the car. The ride to the Emons’ is quiet, but not awkward.
When we arrive, the once-pristine living room is in shambles, Resna plunked amid the mess, playing with some of Harun’s robot models exactly as I hoped.
With undue pride in his voice, Hanif announces to the gathered group of haggard adults, “You’ll be pleased to hear that not a single inappropriate thing happened under my watch. They barely spoke at all. But Mansif Khalu, can I have a word?”
While he and Harun’s father retire into another room to discuss my bad manners—with any luck—our mothers try not to reveal how disappointed they are. Harun and I share a sneaky eye roll and a snicker that quickly transform into identical, scornful stares the instant our audience’s attention returns to us.
Later that night, on the car ride home, a new text pops up on my phone. About that movie…
I grin.
Date One was pretty successful, if you ask me.